Category Archives: weltons


With more than a degree of trepidation, I opened the door to the pub.

Instantly my nose was filled with the lofty fumes of urea and disinfectant, it was utterly revolting. I could see clearly from one side of the bar to the other and the place was half full of sanctimonious old cunts slowly eating burgers with cutlery, an air of imperious victory rested over them like their vast napkins. These people hadn’t been to a fucking pub since Mr. Hitler turned up his toes.

Frank and I went to the back of the bar, both of us automatically scanning for ashtrays, both realising there was no point and sitting down confused with our Welton’s. Already a succession of, frankly, unwell looking gentlemen were passing us to gain access to the beer garden where the landlord had kindly set out umbrellas and tables for the crushed smoking community. Frank intended to hold out for a cigarette, I decided to wait until I’d downed the pint before having one, forcing Frank to do the same. We were both drinking faster than usual.

After 3 pints and 5 fags we headed off. It was odd, it didn’t feel as if we’d actually had our usual pint, felt more like an encounter in a branch of Little Chef. To make the matters worse the heaven’s opened and I actually got soaked to the skin on the way back home. Balls.

As I’d had a booze free Sunday, and because I’d got soaked, AND because, I decided to have a wine. The fucking wine box on the fridge (a survivor from Glastonbury) has a dribble in it, I figured I do that and call it a day. I poured one and prepared a disappointing supper of breaded Pollack (hey, that rhymes with a rude, fucking tastes like it too) and broccoli with a mustard sauce (seasoned cucumber mayo on the side with paprika) following a hastily organised bath that was more of a follow-on from my earlier drenching.

Wine boxes are very strange things. Even when they’re lighter than one of Joanna Lumley’s guffs they still vomit forth gallons of produce. I was working on the ‘well, this is the last drop’ basis. I was working on this basis for most of the evening. It wasn’t a sensible basis on which to work.

I wanted to watch Die Hard 2 but because a bunch of fanatics had taken it upon themselves to set fire to a car and themselves (self-immolation is so 60’s don’t you think) they cancelled it. The fucking cunts! What possible justification have ITV got for cancelling a film because some wanker misread a book and told all his mates… I mean what if that was their goal? Not to disrupt the rail, road and airport infrastructure of the UK, but to get ITV to cancel Die Hard 2 because they don’t like how much balder Bruce Willis’ has got since the first film. It means they’ve won doesn’t it.

I got in work late today due to my fucking back. At some point last night I sneezed hard and felt a twang in my lower back, I was half expecting it to be bad today, so at least I didn’t disappoint myself.


In the pub last night Frank, James and I were discussing the less tasteful aspects of pornography, that is an oxymoron of course, all pornography is distasteful but there is a vast chasm of filth between naked ladies showing their bottoms and the hilarious copraphilia, say. Anyway, we were giggling like naughty little schoolboys at the absurdity of it all when the subject of Bukkake came up. Unanimously none of us got it, or rather, we failed to see who gets what out of it.

When a gentleman has finished polishing the brasswear following a visit to the grumble pages contained within the information superhighway, there is always that degree of mild, well, shame. Like you can see yourself from afar, flaccid nob resting on your leg, as one clings onto a soiled bit of paper with ones genetic name all spunked over it. It’s humbling experience we all agreed as we supped our Welton’s, indeed, most (normal) gentlemen reading this will understand this…

In the case of Bukkake we can assume that the recipient of what amounts to be at least a bucket of wallpaper paste right in the face is either, I should imagine, a. deranged b. desperate c. egomaniacal. Not being a woman I will spare you further conjecture, my drinking companions were equally as baffled. But what of the men? I mean who decides to stand about with a load of other chaps tossing the salad for the sole purpose of relieving oneself in unison in the face of a stranger? How does one get a job like that? Is it advertised in the small ads or are the spunkists yanked off the street by men missing little fingers and ordered to perform on pain of death, you know, use it or lose it type thing.

Crucially to our conversation, what happens after the act has taken place? Does one try and make polite conversation, perhaps suggest hair products to the glazed recipient of a wall of jitler ‘Oooh, have you tried Studio Line by L’Oreal, that’s right good for getting wadge out of the roots’, offer her a tissue? Some tissue, I mean? What do you tell your mates down the pub what you’ve up to? Can you look you mum in the eye? Is there life on Mars?

Baffled, we pondered this matter for while prior to discussing the 7 Ages of Rock (and fucking Poxy Music), which was a lot less complicated, though perhaps not as funny.

Last night was as dull as dishwater after the pub, I couldn’t be arsed to cook so I ate a vast quantity of smoked salmon and cream cheese. I made it through ‘Paul Merton in China’ which seems to have turned into ‘Paul Merton tries his hand at observational comedy in China’. It’s not working but its still engaging enough I suppose. I cheered myself up with ‘The Pledge’, Jack Nicolson has never been better but the cost of watching this thoroughly miserable slice of excellence doesn’t inspire one to get down and boogie. I went to bed feeling flat, especially as I was aware that I’d be in fucking work the following day.

And here I am, ta da! I love my job, really, I really reelly relli do